A Time for Secrets (16 page)

Harker padded out into the kitchen. He stretched and poured himself a cup of coffee. “What’s on your schedule for the day?” he asked.

“I have to find an actress from the fifties. I can’t find any trace of her. It’s like she never existed.”

“Why do you need her?”

“She was married to Bill Maker. She might know something.”

He nodded. “You could try one of the theater critics at the papers. Or go down to the Goodman and see if there are any old-timers around who might remember her.”

“Thanks,” I said.

I dumped my coffee down the sink, emptied my now very full ashtray, kiss
ed
Harker goodbye, and walked out to Lake Shore to catch an express bus down to Michigan Avenue. Since I planned to double back and get my gym bag from the office and then go to the gym
,
I left my guns at home.

Maybe that wasn’t such a good idea if Finnegan was out to get me
,
but all I had planned were a couple rides on the El, a brief conversation, and then a workout. Normally, none of that required a weapon. Still, I felt half-naked without my guns.

Harker’s idea about the Goodman wasn’t a bad one, but I thought I might have a better idea. Carolyn O’Hara ran a temp agency out of a very small office in a pricey block of Superior. Her employees were largely artsy types—actors, writers, musicians, just about anyone who wanted the flexibility a low paying, temporary office job would bring. The walls of her office were covered with actors’ 8
x
10s, and I remembered that hers was among them. Out of all the people I knew she was the one most likely to know something about Veatrice LaShell.

“I never expected to see you again,” she said when I sat down in front of her. Then she took three phone calls while I waited. I’d met Carolyn the year before when one of her employees had been murdered. She’d helped me pose as a secretary to ferret out the murderer.

She was a handsome woman in her mid-forties with flaming red hair and a taste for heavy make-up. I got the impression she was well liked by her employees, which meant she probably did right by them. She seemed to be a nice person with a big heart and, unlike most nice people she’d found a way to make it pay. When she hung up for the third time she asked, “So, you’ve decided to give up the investigation racket and become a temp? I got good reports on you. Before your boss tried to murder you, that is.”

“I’m looking for an actress named Veatrice LaShell. I’ve tried tracking her down through my normal routes, but there’s no record of her anywhere. I wondered if you might remember her?”

She smiled. This was going to be as easy as I’d hoped. “You really didn’t think Veatrice LaShell was her real name, did you? No one’s born with a name like that.”

“So you knew her?”

“Sure, I knew Veatrice. When I was a teenager my parents sent me to an acting summer camp that she ran. It was all girls. Quite an education.”

I knew it had nothing to do with my case, but I couldn’t help but ask, “How so?”

“This was in the late fifties. Veatrice had a TV show giving out homemaking advice in the afternoon, she did plays here and there. Locally she was quite famous, people liked her, they thought she was wholesome.”

“But she wasn’t?”

“That depends on your definition of wholesome,” she said with a smile. “Veatrice ran those summer camps like a harem. The summer I went she slept with every girl there. Except me. You’d think I’d have been relieved since I’m not inclined that way. Instead, I spent the next year wondering what was wrong with me.”

“Maybe she just ran out of time.”

“Aren’t you sweet to say so.”

“Do you have any idea where she is now?”

“I do actually. I have a number of dykes working for me. They all have the good sense to hit on me. A girl just doesn’t feel pretty unless she’s turning someone down.” She smirked at her own joke, and I got the feeling she’d used it before. “Veatrice owns a lesbian bar called Pearl’s. It’s up north on Sheridan somewhere.”

“Do you know what name she’s going by now?”

“Pearl. It’s probably not her real name either. I’m not sure she even uses a last name.”

“I see,” I said. “Thank you.”

“So can you tell me what this is about?” she asked.

“I’m afraid not.”

“Do you investigate more than just murders?”

“Actually, most of what I do is pretty boring. Background checks, skip traces, things like that.”

“Maybe I’ll hire you,” she said. “I’ve got a client. Pretty big one, too. He’s going into bankruptcy and has no plans to pay me. I think he’s got the money. He’s just hiding it. Can you check out something like that?”

“It’s not my specialty.”

“Yeah, but I like you. What are your rates?”

I told her. She said she might call me in a few weeks. I nodded a goodbye and left. Part of me wanted to run right up to Pearl’s and see if I could find Veatrice—or rather, Pearl, but it was so early I didn’t think the bar would even be open. I got back on the El and, after stopping at my office to grab my gym bag, walked the six blocks over to the Y.

My workout was pretty good. I jogged a little and then lifted a few light barbells. I was glad I was getting back into exercise; it was doing a world of good for my mood. When I was good and sweaty, I headed to the locker room, peeled off my work clothes, and went to shower. I could have just showered at home, and sometimes did. But I figured Harker’s mother was there by now, so it actually felt more private to shower at the gym.

When the gym was busy, the shower was a fun place to take a peek at some of the attractive young guys who worked out at the Y. That morning, though, the gym was nearly empty, and I was alone in the shower. When I got out, I noticed a guy of about twenty or twenty-one standing next to an open locker just a few down from mine. He looked like he hadn’t started to change into his workout clothes, and he seemed hesitant to start. I turned my back on the kid and, dropping my towel, began to put my clothes on. I tried to think if I’d seen him before. He looked a little familiar. Had I seen him on another visit?

I got my boxers on and turned around so I could sneak a look at him while I put on my socks. He wasn’t a bad looking kid, not by a mile. He was a few inches shorter than I am, about six feet, sandy brown hair with eyes to match. His face had nice, even features, and if he smiled he might be kind of sexy. But he wasn’t smiling. In fact, he was a pretty stern looking character.

I had my jeans on and had begun to button my shirt when I glanced over my shoulder and noticed the kid rubbing his dick through his jeans. I turned to face him again while I finished buttoning my shirt. He smiled. I was right. He was a lot sexier when he smiled. He continued to rub his dick. Through his jeans, I could see that it was nice and long, and nice and hard.

My cock strained against my 501s. He bobbed his head, indicating he wanted me to play along. I didn’t, though. I needed to be more careful and pulling my hard dick out at the Y wasn’t what I’d call careful. Watching a guy rub his dick through his pants probably didn’t fit the bill either, but I was doing it anyway. I gave a nod back at him, hoping I could get him to pull his dick out. He shook his head.

I figured that was the end of it, so I picked up my gym bag and turned to leave. The minute I did, he said, “Wait.” I turned to look at him, and he was pulling his zipper down, slowly. Very slowly. I leaned up against the locker and watched.

When the zipper was all the way down he reached through the opening in his BVDs and pulled out his cock. It was as nice as I’d expected. Rock hard, it swayed a little to one side. I noticed it had a small mole, a beauty mark on the tip. It was a very tempting little feature. I almost got down on my knees so I could run my tongue around it.

The kid just stood there with his dick in his hand.

“Pump it,” I whispered.

“Lemme see yours.”

I shook my head. He frowned. I don’t think he intended to, but he began to slowly pump his dick. It’s a pretty natural response when you’re holding a hard-on.

“Faster,” I whispered.

He pumped himself faster.

“Take it out,” he whimpered.

I shook my head, now it was getting fun to deny him.

Suddenly, he shuddered and spurted a nice, creamy load of jizz onto the locker room floor. I gave him a smile. That was pretty fun. My cock was still hard in my pants, and I decided to give the little adventure a whole lot of thought later when I was alone. I picked up my bag and left the locker room.

As I walked up the stairs to the first floor, I could hear the guy’s footsteps behind me. Obviously, he’d rushed to put himself back together so he could catch up to me. I had a sinking feeling he was going to follow me outside to see if he could start something up, something like dating. If he did, I was going to have to put the kibosh on that.

I made my way through the lobby, noticing a couple of middle-aged policemen standing next to the Slavic man who took my money when I came into the place. The policemen were not wearing uniforms, but I’d have known what they were anywhere. I was pretty sure I could walk into a room full of naked men and tell you which ones were on the job. I wondered what these two were doing there when they looked over my shoulder. I turned around, following their glance, and looked right at the guy I’d just watched jerk off.

He was red-faced and obviously embarrassed, but he still nodded at the officers like he was passing along important information. One of them stepped forward and grabbed me by the arms. Suddenly, I realized I wasn’t as good at picking out policemen as I’d thought.

The guy I’d just watch jerk off was on the job.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

It was a very unpleasant night.

After I was picked up at the YMCA, I was taken to the Town Hall Station. The officers who arrested me were named Lutz and Brennan. Both were middle-aged, with softening muscles and crew cuts. Lutz was taller. When I refused to answer any questions or say anything at all, other than that I’d like to call my lawyer, they put me into a holding cell in the basement.

Despite the heat outside, the cell was ice cold. Other than that, there wasn’t much to recommend it. There were hard benches on each side of the cell, a cracked porcelain toilet, and, next to the toilet, an abused payphone clamped to the wall.

My pockets had been emptied, so I didn’t have a dime to make a call. I called the operator and asked to place a collect call to Cooke, Babcock, and Lackerby. The receptionist must have been a temp because she refused to be responsible for the charges. Or, she may not have been a temp. It might have been their policy not to accept collect calls. Clients who called collect would, logically, be less likely to pay their rates. As it was, I hoped to get a steep discount from Owen Lovejoy, Esquire.

If I could get him on the phone.

At ten of five, I was hauled out of the cell and offered a telephone. That was carefully thought through. My lawyer would be on the verge of leaving his office, and, since I’d probably go before a judge first thing in the morning, they hadn’t allowed a lot of time for him to get up to speed. I knew that Lovejoy typically worked overtime though, so I wasn’t surprised when I actually got him on the phone.

“I’ve been arrested,” I told him when he came onto the line. “I’m at Town Hall Station.”

“What are they charging you with?”

“Do you know what you’re charging me with, yet?” I asked Brennan, who was hovering nearby to illegally listen to my call. He acted like he hadn’t heard me.

“You can’t talk,” Lovejoy guessed. “Who should I contact? Detective Haggerty?”

“I haven’t seen him, but that might not be a bad idea. He knows me.”

“It’s late. I might not be able to get much done before tomorrow morning.”

“I think that was the plan.”

When they put me back into the holding cell I had a roommate, a fifty-year-old wino with three good teeth left in his mouth. I could have called Harker right then. I knew he’d accept the charges, but I didn’t like the idea of having to listen to one of his angry silences. Not to mention, I wouldn’t be able to say much. So what was the point?

During the night they kept dumping argumentative drunks into the cell, so I didn’t get anything you could call sleep. Fortunately, I was allowed to smoke, but I only had three quarters of a pack so by three or four in the morning I had to go cold turkey. From that point until close to ten, when an officer finally came to get me, felt like a good month and a half.

The officer led me upstairs to an interview room where I found Owen Lovejoy, Esquire, sitting at a battered wooden table. I hadn’t even sat down when he said, “So tell me what happened. Quickly.”

“I wait all night and now I have to be quick?” I asked. Spending a night in the lockup made me grumpy.

“I’ve requested a meeting at ten. I’m hoping there’s something I can use to get this whole thing dropped before they put you in front of a judge. Tell me what happened.”

“You don’t have a cigarette, do you?” I asked, but it only earned me a frown. I sighed and began, “I went to the gym, worked out, after my shower I was putting on my clothes and this guy started jerking off. I watched him for a minute or two, and then I left. When I walked out of the building, they nabbed me.”

As I spoke, he took notes on a yellow pad.

“That’s all you did? Don’t lie to me, Nick. This doesn’t work if you lie.”

“Believe me, I would tell you.”’

“So this guy was jerking off? He pulled his dick out and it was hard?”

“Very.”

“What was it like?”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No, I’m not. Describe it. As accurately as possible.” His pen was poised and he waited.

I could barely believe we were having an official conversation about cocks. “It was a little bigger than most.”

“Inches?”

“Between seven and eight, I guess.”

“Thickness?”

“Narrow. Not what you’d call a pencil dick but not that wide in circumference.”

“Straight? Bent? Crooked in the middle?”

I thought for a moment. “It listed to his left.”

“What color?”

“He’s a white guy, so, you know, it was flesh-colored.”